Not as Grimm as it Seems
by Whispering Darkness
Summary: For a moment Harry started, surprised at the first sign of any sort of non-muggle presence in this world. Just what exactly was a 'Blutbad' - or a Grimm for that matter? Collection of related drabbles/snapshots centered around Harry, Monroe, Nick and Renard.
1. Seeing

**1 - Seeing**

* * *

For a moment Harry started, surprised at the first sign of any sort of non-muggle presence in this world. He swore his heart skipped a beat, even as he automatically reached for his wand, grasping the familiar wood tightly under his jacket as he stared at the wolf-man.

The wolf-man turned, as if he could sense the wizard's gaze, and his earlier visage melted away into a human one a long second after their eyes met. The now-man-again blinked, staring at Harry with a small, confused frown on his face. A second later the confusion melted away in realisation and the man took a step back.

But Harry wasn't going to let his only hint of magic get away. Not now that he found something just as magical and out of place as he was in this world. No, he was bloody well going to find out just who or what that wolf-man was. Mind made up, his shoulders straightened and his face blazed with a merciless determination that hid the desperate loneliness and fear of these last few months.

With his sharp eyes not leaving the man's he moved forward.

He had not expected the man to actually _run._

* * *

(Word Count: 200)


	2. Meeting

**2 - Meeting**

* * *

Harry only barely managed to keep up with the running wolf-man. The bloke was fast – and seemed to be familiar with this forest he had entered.

But Harry wasn't unused to running and could be fast when it mattered – whether he was running from Dudley, from the Snatchers or Death Eathers during their Horcrux hunt, or running _towards_ something or someone equally important. Right now, as always, it was his desperation and determination that fuelled him – that pushed him on and on despite the stitch in his side and his shortness of breath.

Even so, the wolf-man was faster. Not to mention stronger – when his way was blocked, the guy ripped off even the thickest and heaviest tree-branches in his way with an ease that was somewhat scary.

So Harry took a chance, held his wand out in the open and aimed a wordless 'Wingardium Leviosa' at a large branch in front of the running man.

He was already hiding his wand again when the man hit the ground. Harry was slightly embarrassed at having to cheat, especially since the guy hadn't actually _done_ anything to him – but, as he quickly marched over to the lying man, the wizard did manage to portray an air of power and confidence.

At least, he hoped he did. Otherwise he'd be looking like a skinny, embarrassed, harmless kid and that was not quite the image he was going for nowadays. Or ever.

So he cleared his throat, looked down at the man who was quickly scrambling to his feet and put on his most forbidding voice. "What, may I ask, are you?"

Harry was sure he managed to sound hard, unyielding and filled with an impressive command because the man, now once again upright, had his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

"Ok there, let's just take it easy, alright. I am not your typical Blutbad."

Harry's eyes narrowed at the word; 'Blutbad – bloodbath' that did _not_ sound good.

"I'm a good Blutbad!" the man hastened to say, even as he took another step back, "A vegetarian even. And I work with a Grimm – Nick, he knows me, he can vouch for me."

The wizard relaxed. None of the words spilling from the man's mouth meant anything to him – except vegetarian which he took as a good thing – but the man's manner and hasty explanations were a good enough indication that he didn't mean any harm.

"A Blutbad, huh."

"Vegetarian. A _vegetarian_ Blutbad, I don't do that sort of stuff anymore – fully clean nowadays, working on the side of the angels, or at least the Grimm. And the police."

Harry nodded in understanding and the man sighed in relief and lowered his hands. "So… we're good… Right?" He asked.

"Of course."

The man's face shifted back into his wolf-form and Harry could see him scenting the air before it went back to its former unassuming appearance. "You're sure. I mean, we _are_ good –?"

Harry cocked his head and took a few steps closer to the man who tensed up again, his face going back to that of a wolf-man with a dangerous growl - preparing for a fight, no doubt.

The wizard halted in his steps, hand hovering above where his wand-holster was hidden underneath his jacket. "I just have one more question, if you don't mind?"

He got a slow, wary nod in reply.

"Just what, exactly, _is_ a Blutbad?"

The silence that fell between them was filled with a heavy tension as both men tried to find something in each others eyes – the truth, the start of an attack, a hint of deception.

It was the wolf-man who broke their stalemate by exhaling loudly, letting go of his wolf-like aspects and allowing the tension to drain from his body. "Oh man, you're a new one too?"

Harry frowned, wondering what this man was talking about; "A new what?"

"A Grimm, man." At the look of non-understanding on his face, the man rolled his eyes. "Jeez man, you scared the crap outta me."

"I scared you?" Harry repeated, somewhat amused by the fact that this man – whom he had seen rip off more than just one heavy tree-branch with his bare hands and who had growled at him with the face of a wolf would be scared of _him_. Not him, Harry Potter – famous, powerful wizard, but him – short skinny stranger. His 'forbidding voice' must have been even better than he thought it was. A smile spread over his face at that thought as he mentally rubbed this in the face of his friends 'Hah – now who's laughing at my powerful wizard persona, huh?'

He ignored the homesick twinge he felt in his chest when, in his mind's eye, he saw them rolling their eyes and laughing at him.

* * *

(Word Count: 800)


	3. Knowing

**3 - Knowing**

* * *

After their little tussle in the woods, Monroe had explained to Harry about himself, about Wesen in general, about some in particular - and about the Grimm.

And Harry had listened, silently comparing the magic of this world to his own. Monroe would be the werewolf of this world – with the strength, sense of smell and animal instincts of a wolf but the mind of a man. From what Harry could tell, the Blutbaden didn't really 'lose themselves' to the wolf at any given time but it was a struggle – the instincts were always there, underneath the surface.

The fact that this man both fought _and_ accepted them; used _and_ denied them depending on which instincts they were – that was something that Harry could never fully understand.

But he could respect it.

So he nodded in all the right places, asked a few questions of his own, making sure that he _understood_ these Wesen and the rules of this new world he had ended up in - 'so you keep yourselves a secret from the 'normal people', but you _can_ show yourself to them if you want to?' - as he amicably let the man lead them back to civilization.

* * *

(Word Count: 200)


	4. Conversation

**4 - Conversation**

* * *

"A bakery?"

Harry just raised an eyebrow and nodded.

"Dude. How can you own a bakery of all things?"

"I bought it." the wizard answered, ignoring the man's incredulous tone.

"Yeah, I got that. But man… it just seems like a very un-Grimm like thing to do." Monroe shook his head in amazement as he looked around the cosy, closed shop. "Seriously, you just bake stuff?"

"Cookies, cake, donuts… I have some delicious cherry pie if you're interested?"

"Yeah... sure."

Harry finished setting up the last tables with paper napkins and sugar bowls and turned to the kitchen to get that pie. It was the least he owed the guy for their little unscheduled morning run. Especially since it had been _his_ doing.

They ate silently, a reluctant camaraderie cautiously settling itself between them as both of them enjoyed their tea or coffee and Harry's freshly baked pie.

"Well, thank you for your explanations."

"No problem, man. Thank you for not killing me."

They rose, shook hands, and Harry led the wolf-man to the door.

Before the door closed between them, Harry knew that there was one thing left to be said about all this: "I'm not a Grimm, though."

* * *

(Word Count: 200)


	5. Deny

**5 - Deny**

* * *

"Did the wolf put you up to this?" Harry asked, by now quite used to Monroe dropping by just before opening time for some freshly baked goods and freely offered friendly-neighbourhood-wolf counselling.

The man for whom he had opened the door just after closing blinked in surprise. "Ah, yeah. My name is Nick Burkhardt."

"The Grimm." Harry clarified, recognizing the name from the countless times Monroe had tried to convince him to go and see the man and talk about 'Grimm-stuff'.

He had yet to convince his Blutbad acquaintance that he was not, in fact, a Grimm himself.

"Yes. The Grimm." The police detective paused, his friendly smile disappearing behind something cautious but hopeful that twisted his face into a rather adorable frown. "_A_ Grimm, because apparently you are one too."

The wizard sighed and shook his head; "I'm sorry, detective, but I'm not."

The police detective seemed to be sizing him up and Harry nearly winced because he _knew_ what the man would see – someone young, vulnerable and alone who was hiding from the world. Because good police officers, even in the U.S. a world away, always seemed to recognize these parts in Harry; the orphan, the runaway, the victim of bullying, neglect and abuse.

Somehow his wild raven-hair, his glasses and his small frame obscured the part of him that was strong, the part that _did _know love and just how precious it was, the part of him that knew, deeply – to the very core of his being that there was so much in the world, either world, worth fighting for. He wondered why they couldn't see _that_ part of him – the one that Hermione so aptly named his "saviour-complex", the part of him that would always, _always_ stand up against any who wanted to do harm to those he cared for, to innocents or random passers by - and do the right thing.

No matter the cost.

And this time, the last time – it had cost him dearly.

Hands clenched, Harry turned away, fleeing his thoughts more than he was fleeing the policeman's intruding stare.

"Look…" the man started, voice carefully soft – of course it would be – "I know that this, that all of this is not something anyone would want. It's kind of crazy, a bit out there, but it is happening. It's real, and denying that won't help. It won't make this go away."

"Detective-"

"Nick. Call me Nick."

And Harry didn't bother to argue, because the detective's voice was still infinitely gentle - as if he were talking to a frightened child. So he nodded and humoured the guy because he knew that this man was both a Grimm and a policeman and that denying him this familiarity would only make him push harder – because Harry recognized that stubbornness behind the warm smile.

He had it too - that same unwavering determination, when it came down to stuff that _mattered_.

So he would give this man an inch. "Nick."

An inch, but no further.

* * *

(Word Count: 500)


	6. Warm

**6 - Warm**

* * *

"Harry, meet Rosalee."

"Nice to meet you." The British wizard said, politely shaking hands with the woman.

The woman replied in kind; "Nice to meet you too."

"Would you like some tea, coffee, hot chocolate?" Harry offered, leading his after-closing guests to a table. "I find that I much prefer the warming taste of hot chocolate these wintry evenings" he mused aloud.

Monroe, used to Harry's habit of plying every visitor with food and drinks before being willing to engage in any real conversation followed him agreeably. "Yeah, sure – hot chocolate would be a nice change. Hey, do you still have any of those Pumpkin Pasties left?" the wolf turned to the woman at his side; "they are surprisingly good."

Rosalee, to her credit, seemed perfectly willing to go along with it, even as something in her stance told Harry that he was not quite what she'd expected.

It was heartening, the way she put her trust in Monroe.

So, instead of getting left-over goods from the kitchen, he silently Apparated to his apartment above the store and got the last two Pumpkin Pasties from his own refrigerator.

Because some things were more important than that tantalizing taste of home.

* * *

(Word Count: 200)


	7. Truth

**7 - Truth**

* * *

The man had walked into his bakery just before closing and had stayed there, patiently waiting. Harry knew who he was, had seen him in the company of the Detective. He was their Captain.

He was more than _just_ that.

Harry flipped the sign on the door to 'Closed' and busied himself with cleaning up – he could be patient as well, nowadays.

"What are you?" The police captain finally asked, voice calm – undaunted. There was no outward sign that he was anything more than human, but the wizard could sense the power hidden underneath the man's skin.

So he looked up, meeting those piercing eyes for a long silent moment.

"I am… a long way from home." Harry finally answered – but his eyes conveyed the deeper truth: I am nothing you have seen before, I am what I am, me alone.

A truth laid bare - for those who could read it.

Captain Renard nodded, stood and walked away.

The Master of Death was left wondering what it was _he_ had found in the other man's eyes. He thought it might have been a form of protective concern.

But he wasn't sure – it had been hidden far too deeply.

* * *

(Word Count: 200)


	8. Promise

**8 - Promise**

* * *

"I'm sorry man, I didn't know where else to go." Monroe started as he hastily made his way inside the bakery. Harry yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and locked the door behind them even as his sort-of-friend rambled on. "They know about Nick and about the shop, so I figured my house wouldn't be the best choice either and I _had_ to take her somewhere safe."

Harry looked between the agitated man – face switching between wolf and human – and Rosalee, who seemed rather shook up. "It's fine." He said simply, calmly.

For a moment he regarded the shop's windows and the cold, dark night behind them.

And shook his head with a resigned sigh. "Come on, then."

The bakery was one thing, but it was an uncomfortable, revealing, yet oddly warm feeling to bring them to his _apartment_, his private space – somewhat like sunbathing naked on a low, sunny roof.

Thankfully neither of his midnight guests remarked upon the lack of photographs and knickknacks. They didn't mention that the only thing that made his apartment look like a home were the candles and the collection of pillows and plaids the colour of autumn leaves.

Besides those, his rooms were still bare – no pictures on the walls, no books on the shelves – even a full year after his arrival here.

Rosalee was too polite to mention any of this and Monroe… Monroe still had far too much wolf in his face to notice such trivialities - his eyes were still darting around, looking for some hidden threat.

"Monroe." The wizard said firmly, not just drawing, but _demanding_ the man's attention.

When he could see that the wolf-man was fully focussed on him he gave a soft, reassuring smile – one that felt almost foreign because he hadn't used it since coming to this world, since parting from his family of friends. Still, despite the disuse, his smile was true. As were the words that accompanied it.

"No harm will come to you in my home. Whoever, whatever it is that hunts you – it cannot find you here."

The silence between them was filled with questions that would not be asked, not now, and answers that might never be spoken out loud.

But it was also filled with truth. And trust.

And more warding magic than this world had ever seen.

Because Harry was nothing if not protective of his home.

* * *

(Word Count: 400)


	9. Choice

**9 – Choice**

* * *

"I'm really sorry about this, Harry." Detective Nick Burkhardt told him, voice apologetic and eyes troubled.

"It's fine. Monroe and Rosalee are always welcome here."

The Grimm ran a hand through his hair; "It's not fine. We are puting you in danger." He walked back and forth in Harry's small living room with a tense, barely restrained force - like a caged tiger. "Maybe Hank…"

"No."

The man blinked an turned to the wizard; "It's not that I don't appreciate it. But Hank is a cop – he doesn't know about Wesen and any of this, but maybe if I told him-"

"Detective." Harry's voice was hard. He was done humouring the man. It wasn't that he didn't respect Nick - from all that he had seen and heard of the man, he _liked_ him. He was a good man, a good police officer and a good Grimm – one who didn't kill indiscriminately, one who understood the concept of live and let live, one who didn't judge and didn't hurt people needlessly. But he was also crossing a line that Harry was rather sensitive about. "Monroe and Rosalee can stay here. With me."

The detective shook his head; "I cannot ask you-"

But Harry interrupted him again; "This isn't your decision. It's mine. And what you _cannot_ _do_ is tell me what choice to make."

Nick didn't immediately protest again. No, the man studied him – took in his stance, his eyes, his calm but firm voice. And Harry could tell that this man _saw_ him. Listened to his words seriously.

And despite, or maybe because of, Harry's immense dislike of people trying to protect him for his own good, _that_ made his respect for the guy raise just a notch higher. Because most of them had never even _tried_ to see him, hadn't wanted to listen to the words of a teenage boy – even though he was a rather central part of the situation.

"I thought you didn't want to get involved with any of this. I thought you didn't want to be a Grimm." Nick said – but there was no accusation there, just a careful statement, almost a test.

"I am who I am, whether that is a Grimm or not has nothing to do with this." Harry said firmly. "If my friends are in danger, I _will_ help them."

But Nick was _more_ than a Grimm, he was a police detective and he had to do his best to protect Harry, if he could; "This could be dangerous - you could get hurt."

And what Harry _wanted_ to say was that he wasn't a child, that he was, perhaps, far more aware than the older detective of the costs, of the pain that came from getting involved, from starting to care. He could have told the man that he had been in a _war_, that he had seen and done things that would give even a Grimm nightmares – he could have said any of this, but he doubted it would make this situation any better.

"I know." Was all that came from his mouth – softly spoken, but without the slightest hint of doubt. Because Harry _did_ know, perhaps better than anyone. But he had already promised Monroe safety in his home. And if they got hurt without his help – because of him… No, no matter what Nick said, this way would be far less painful than that.

Detective Burkhardt looked at him a moment longer - and there was still guilt and a need to protect all of them warring with understanding on his face. So the wizard almost sighed in relief when, finally, the man nodded.

The detective left – to pick up Monroe and Rosalee from his trailer, where he had left them to research the current threat. And Harry was left to ponder the fearful guilt in the man's eyes.

He knew those feelings, knew them well. But he also knew that everyone made their own choices. His friends had chosen to stand by his side – Hermione, Ron, the members of their DA study group. Even Sirius had made his own choice, in coming to save him.

It had taken him a long, long time to come to terms with it and quite a few arguments with Ron and Hermione. As his friends had so vehemently pointed out – this was their life, their world and their war too. It didn't matter that Voldemort hunted them because of Harry.

Because, even _without him_ they still would have fought.

As Ron had so aptly put it; "Blimy Harry, don't you get it! This isn't about _you_, it's about all of us. Do you really think that if we weren't your friends, that we wouldn't have been a part of this war? That Hermione as muggle-born wouldn't have been a bloody target? That we wouldn't stand up and fight either way? We _want_ to fight. Hell, mate, we _need_ to do this. You're not the only one with a right to fight for the people you care about, you know. We have just as much to fight for as you do."

And with Ron standing before him, a true Gryffindor in every sense of the world, Harry hadn't been able to deny it. Because hadn't they earned the right to make that choice? To stand up for what they believed in like Harry did? Could he really ask them to step aside, to _not_ help him because he was afraid that they would get hurt?

How could he ask that - when he would _never_ hesitate to rush forward to save them, no matter the danger, every single time.

And it didn't make it hurt any less, didn't make the guilt fully go away – to know that this was their choice, their own choice to make. The pain, the fear, the loss, the guilt and the what-if's were all still there.

Nothing would ever change that.

He wondered if, these days, Ron held that same painful guilt in his eyes.

* * *

(Word Count: 1000)


	10. Blood

**10 - Blood**

* * *

There was blood on his shirt.

Blood on his arms and face too, and in his hair and mouth – but _that_ was his own blood and didn't bother him even nearly as much as the blood on his previously blue shirt.

Even if it hadn't been Harry who had killed the Mauvais Dentes in the end. Harry had still made his choice – had refused to take the risk that the beast-man would come back and hurt those he considered his friends.

Not with Nick on the floor, unconscious. With Rosalee running from the bakery to get some help at Monroe's urging.

With Monroe hurt and scared and desperately trying to get the Detective to wake up.

His promise had echoed loudly in his ears and he _couldn't_ break it. Not for his life.

So he had stood before the Mauvais Dentes and didn't even _try_ to expel the Wesen from his shop with magic. No, he wouldn't risk this man coming after his friends later, without Harry there to help them, and finish what it started.

But with Monroe's fearful eyes darting between him and the beast, with Nick softly groaning as he regained consciousness Harry couldn't, _wouldn't_ call on his magic in any obvious way.

Not unless he had no other choice.

Because some things scared him far more than this creature in front of him. And revealing to any of them what sort of freak he really was - that was one of them. No, he didn't want to go there. Not with his life here still so painfully fragile.

He didn't think he could deal with the change it would bring between them.

So he trusted his wards, even if the wards on his bakery were not nearly as tightly woven as those on his apartment - _couldn't be_, because it wouldn't do for a customer (even if they were the sort of hate-filled, blood-stained person stopped by his wards) to be unable to enter. Still, he trusted that he, as the ward-maker would not meet his death to the one who entered his territory to do harm to him and his own – those under his protection.

And he trusted _himself_, because Harry knew more than just magic – had fought in a war since he was eleven, even if he hadn't fully realised he was fighting back then. And he had known violence and pain even before that, at the hands of Dudley and his gang.

He did not fear either pain or death. Nor did he long for them.

And that made him a difficult opponent to fight.

But his friends were hurt and he had _made_ _a promise _and he would bloody well keep it.

And that made him _more_ than just a difficult opponent. No, that made him fierce, determined and willing to break every unspoken rule he imposed on himself, because if it came down to it he _would not lose_.

In the end, it hadn't quite gotten that far and his rules remained unbroken.

Blood on his face and legs, bruises on his arms and hips. Scratches and bite-marks but Harry had left his own marks on the one who dared hurt those he cared for; a broken leg, a large bruise on the face, the deep slashes of a bread-knife. But none of that really mattered in the end.

Because it was the bullet-wound that had killed the Mauvais Dentes.

The Grimm.

And Harry was ridiculously grateful to the detective for that - that in _this_ world he was not yet a killer.

Even if there _was_ blood on his shirt.

* * *

(Word Count: 600)


	11. Concern

**11 - Concern**

* * *

"Shit man, I'm _so_ sorry" the wolf-man said and Harry could _feel_ the light tremors going through his friend's body.

The wizard somewhat awkwardly patted his friend on the back. He always hated making people worried. And he never knew what to say to reassure them. "I'm fine, Monroe. It was my choice to help you – and things worked out, didn't they?"

The man didn't answer but Harry felt the huff of breath on his neck as the wolf breathed in his scent.

He allowed the Blutbad this moment, this embrace.

Even though the honest concern for his wellbeing made him feel thoroughly embarrassed and uncomfortable.

And perhaps, just a little bit, _touched_.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly and the wolf loosened his hold on him. "Tea, then?"

For a moment it looked as if Monroe would protest, say something more. But thankfully he didn't. "Yeah, that's fine."

Harry pretended not to notice that, before letting go, the man's arms tightened around him for a just a few heartbeats.

In turn, Monroe was kind enough not to comment on the fact that Harry led him up the stairs - to his _home_ - instead of a table in the bakery.

* * *

(Word Count: 200)


	12. Secrets

**12 - Secrets**

* * *

This time the police captain did not even try for subtle. He had walked right up to the door of Harry's closed bakery and stared at the wizard inside – demanding entrance.

And Harry had figured that it was best to get this – whatever this was – over with. Because he could tell that that man had more than just confidence. He had power.

So he let Captain Renard into his bakery and, not one to break the rules of politeness even despite his slight annoyance, gracefully led the man to a comfortable chair with it's back to the wall – because this man had come to see him on _his_ home-ground and deserved a cordial advantage for that despite the suddenness of his visit.

Neither man spoke until Harry had finished getting them both drinks. He had remembered that the man had ordered a Macchiato on his first visit and – though he never much cared for any variety of coffee – out of a polite deference to put them on equal standing, he had made the same for himself. He sipped the hot beverage as he waited for the man to speak.

He did not have to wait long.

"You fought a Mauvais Dentes… with a bread-knife."

Harry nodded. "Did Detective Burkhardt tell you about that?"

The man's voice was hard; "He does not know what I am."

The wizard was genuinely surprised. True, _he_ did not know what the man was either – but he knew that Sean Renard was _something_. He had assumed that Nick knew at least that much, if not more, himself. This man was his boss, after all.

"What makes you think I will not tell him?" Harry asked carefully. There was no threat in his voice, only honest curiosity – because Harry knew necessary secrets but he also knew loyalty and he was not sure where, exactly, this information fell in that murky divide.

"This is my city." Renard informed him – no pretence or pretentiousness, just a naked fact.

The wizard pondered that in silence for a long moment: "What does that mean?"

The man across from him looked up sharply and must have seen the lack of knowledge reflected on his face because when he answered his voice had warmed, to some extent: "You are truly a long way from home, if you do not know."

And Harry smiled, a pained crooked smile that must have looked completely out-of-place on the face of a young man – because it was the broken smile of someone who had lost all. "Yes. I am."

The man nodded thoughtfully and kindly picked up their earlier thread of conversation. "It means that this city is mine to protect, mine to police and mine to rule."

Harry took a drink of his Machiatto as he thought that over. Carefully putting his cup down again, he turned his attention back to this city's ruler. "And you can do this better without the Detective knowing who you are?"

The wizard could see that the ruler of Portland was considering his answer; weighing just how much or how little to tell. In the end, the man settled for a simple truth. "It is necessary. For now."

Necessary.

And Harry did not really know this world – not as well as this man across from him did. Nor did he know this city as intimately as the man who claimed to rule it. So Harry would keep that secret – because he knew secrets. And he would drag it out in the open if he felt it needed to be told – because Harry knew loyalty.

And Nick had earned his.

* * *

(Word Count: 600)


	13. Question

**13 - Question**

* * *

"Monroe," Harry started, remembering a question he had been meaning to ask his Blutbad friend, "do you know anything about those who claim to rule over a city?"

His friend blinked, surprised at the sudden question; "You mean in Wesen terms?"

The wizard nodded distractedly, as he took the vegetarian quiche out of his oven.

"Well, yeah, Wesen have rulers too. Royalty. Most of them live back in Europe, though – those who rule over a city or territory are usually Princes. They are generally the ones in charge of the entire Wesen population there – anyone who breaks their rules tends to meet a nasty end." Monroe told him, taking a seat at the table. "That looks good."

Harry regarded the table; salad, carafe of water, two glasses, homemade quiche. He nodded in satisfaction and sat down as well, dividing the quiche between them.

"Why do you ask, anyway?" the wolf asked, though his attention was more on the food before him than on Harry.

"The Prince of Portland came to see me" the wizard answered with a shrug.

His friend's head snapped up to look at him: "Woah, man, what? Are you sure?"

"That's who he claimed to be, I guess." Harry said with a small shrug. "I believe him – I couldn't tell what sort of Wesen he was, but I could tell that he was _something_. Powerful."

That seemed to be the start shot for his friend to start panicking: "Are you _alright_? What did he say? Are you in trouble? We can get Nick and maybe... well…" the Blutbad floundered, "well, we'll think of _something_ we can do."

It was obvious from his friend's doubtful expression that he didn't think there was much they _could_ do. Monroe exhaled loudly. "Jeez, man, a _Prince?_ I didn't even know Portland _had_ a Prince. Well he can't be happy that he's got not one but _two_ Grimms in his territory. Man. As if those Reapers aren't enough trouble. An honest-to-God _Prince_."

"Hm…" Harry hummed thoughtfully, adding some salad to his plate. He didn't bother to point out that he was not, in fact, a Grimm – Monroe didn't quite believe him and _now_ did not seem to be the best time to get into another discussion about Harry living in denial.

"_Are_ you in trouble?"

The wizard met his friend's concerned eyes: "No. I don't think so. Don't worry about it, Monroe. I was just curious, that's all."

"Yeah, well. I'm calling Nick."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" The Blutbad asked, even though he didn't seem inclined to listen to any argument Harry would make, because he didn't pause in digging out his phone.

"Oh, just something the Prince said – Nick doesn't know about him and would rather keep it that way for now, apparently." Harry cocked his head. "What do you think, though? _Should_ we tell the detective?"

"The Prince actually _ordered _you not to tell Nick?" the wolf repeated, letting go of his phone as if it burned him; "Yeah, that may not be such a good idea then."

"Are you sure?" Harry frowned. "If you think Nick should know…"

"You would go against a _Prince_? Do you even know how powerful they really are? They rule over all of the city's _Wesen_. That's no job for a pushover, man. He's not someone you want to piss of."

"If Nick needs to know, than he needs to know." Harry said easily – as if it was the most obvious thing it the world. "I don't think the Prince means him any harm , but I'm not exactly an expert on these matters."

Monroe stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide, expression assessing – as if fully seeing him for the first time. Then the man blinked and the intensity of his gaze disappeared.

"Why don't we wait and see, for now…" the wolf finally said. The edge of panic was gone from his voice and the hint of fear had left his eyes. What was left was a tense, but steady calm.

And Harry trusted Monroe, and Monroe's friendship with Nick. And if this is what he truly thought, without fear or panic clouding his judgement, then Harry could agree with that.

Because a large part of him believed the same – had seen something in the police captain's eyes that made him think that the man truly did seek to police and protect his city – and all of the people in it. _Especially_ his detective.

Once upon a time, Harry would have told his friends regardless. Once upon a time, he would have sought out the Prince and demanded to know everything.

But Harry was not that person anymore. He was not that person _here_. Not the hero, not the mystery-solver.

Not the Grimm.

* * *

(Word Count: 800)


End file.
